


Depth Perception

by Eggsbenedictcumberbund



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Freeform, Gen, Introspection, POV John, Sherlock - Freeform, it's always sherlock, john wonders why he is here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggsbenedictcumberbund/pseuds/Eggsbenedictcumberbund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sat in his favorite chair at Baker Street soaking up the single sunbeam that just so happened to glance across the flat, sipping his cup of tea that was almost too hot, and wondered at his life. </p>
<p>John thinks about his life with Sherlock and the amazing man that Sherlock has turned out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Depth Perception

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. This is my first fic, so it should prove interesting. It sort of took an artistic perspective on the whole thing, so hopefully you like imagery and have a vivid imagination like me. Any kudos or comments would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy <3

 

      John sat in his favorite chair at Baker Street soaking up the single sunbeam that just so happened to glance across the flat, sipping his cup of tea that was almost too hot, and wondered at his life.

      He asked himself what he wondered about.

_How did he get here?_ Perhaps. But that question was in itself complicated.

      He got to London by train. He got there by leaving the army. By being shot in the shoulder. His shoulder twitched painfully at the memory of a bullet ripping through his flesh and bone, through his very soul. Of being dragged to the tent in which he usually helped other people. A tent in which people couldn’t always be helped. Of being flown to a better facility because there was nobody capable of helping him there. Nobody like Doctor John Watson. He cringed at the memory of waking to a hospital room’s blinding lights and antiseptic smell; things he was all too used to that suddenly felt foreign, like knives stabbing his senses.

      In a way, that was also how he got _here._ To 221 B. Baker St. By being an invalid. He couldn’t keep a flat mate because of the war. He was nice enough, during the day of course. It’s how he could continue being a doctor; He was also a great actor, always putting a mask of pleasant interest up. But at night, at home, in the darkness that felt as if it were suffocating, he had his nightmares. Not nightmares, but memories, reenacted in his mind during his seemingly inescapable sleep. The memories were worse than nightmares because he knew in his bones that they were real, that the boy whose head had just in that instant erupted into so much meat was truly dead. He would wake up screaming on those nights, heart being wrenched apart for those he had failed to save. When he met Sherlock and they said that he was odd, that he was a freak, he was not afraid of this man’s madness; he merely hoped that it was compatible with his own particular brand.

   That brought up another thought. Another question. _Who was Sherlock Holmes?_

      At first thought, one might say that he was a Consulting Detective for Scotland Yard. John chuckled to himself as he stared out past his lukewarm cup, dust motes dancing in the still air. His Sherlock would scoff at that answer, calling it obvious and boring. Those who regularly interact with him call him a freak, a psychopath (Sociopath!), an angel. John prefers genius. Brilliant. A wonder. He can’t understand why people choose to overlook the amazing mind that he possesses, instead choosing to focus on his (many) shortcomings. Those closest to him see what they think he is. They see a young boy who is constantly hurting himself and those around him without thought or care. They see a young man who is lonely, yet refuses to give in to love. To relationship. To ‘sentiment’, although they believe that he is capable.

John sees-

He pauses.

_Who is Sherlock Holmes really?_

      John realizes that there is no tangible answer. True, he is a flat mate. He is a man with the most beautiful, amazing mind that he has ever encountered. He has the most ethereal beauty that John has seen in anybody, man or woman, though he neglects his ‘transport’ almost violently at times.

      But to describe, to _truly describe_ Sherlock Holmes is to name the wind. Sherlock is the Thames at dawn just after a spring rain. He is the rustle of paper in the file of a fresh murder. He is the color of jam next to dismembered toes in the refrigerator. He is a bullet whizzing just past an ear in a dark alleyway. He is a blade of grass in the breeze and the crack in the sidewalk that the grass takes root in, despite the odds. he is moonlight streaming through the window that illuminates the notes pouring from an overworked violin. He is a skull concealing a pack of cigarettes that is inexplicably missing one. He is the adrenaline pumping through your veins like quicksilver running at top speed. He is enveloping darkness that renders you helpless and piercing light that bares your soul against your will until you are raw. He is the child that cries quietly while trying to be brave. He is john’s reason for living. He is john’s life.

      John broke out of his silent contemplation when he heard the thump of leather clad feet on the stairs. Sherlock silently entered the flat, hung up his coat and scarf, and calmly but purposely strode into the toilet. Out of the corner of his eye john noticed a curly black haired head covered with dirt and blood disappearing around the corner and out of sight. He took a sip of tea, grimacing at the now cold liquid, and realized that he had inadvertently gotten the answer to his question. To any question, really. _Sherlock._


End file.
